Setting up corn field obstacle courses that will make people shit their manties.
Carving pumpkins into leering demon faces.
Dang it! I should be a Halloween-happy fiend of productivity!
I’m watching Father Ted. I’m also not writing. Bigly so. My brain remains serenely blank. Like a giant piece of blankness. Nothin’ up there up blankness.
So!! I did some marijuana trimming. On the Blue Diesel, on the Hawaiian, on the Star something. Yeah. The plants have names. Did you know that?
Your reefer has a specific name for a reason. Connoisseurs of reefer can lovingly talk about properties, high qualities, etc…rather like those wine freaks can talk about barrels, soil and grapes.
Reefer growers can talk, for hours, on the troubles they’ve had with a certain plant. On bud size. On stickiness and gumminess. On which plant is mostly all star buds. Which plant is not all star buds but sports some good solid gigantic, super-giant, buds. Which are easier to trim, so I’ll give them points here, fellow babies. On how people really like reefer that’s named after berries. Blueberry anything, for example, is a good seller.
You have to hand trim. The machine to do this, that would replace the people-labor portion, is rather spendy. As is all farm machinery. At least, the small aunt-run operation I show up for can not field an expensive piece of fiddly machinery.
Also, she likes the company, I think. Family and friends show up to snip buds from stalks. She makes lots of food, there’s snacks and coffee and soft drinks. It’s more of a party than work! Well, no, it’s still mind-numbing, factory-like work. But there’s snacks! You get to hear gossip about people you don’t know. You get to hear gossip about people you do know. I’m not a Gabby McTalkerson, so I just listen. I just listen!
Where was I? Father Ted.
I’ve been watching this twenty year old Britcom. Craggy Island. Catholic priests. It’s gut-bustingly funny. To me, at least. I know the star of this series has died of a heart attack before he turned fifty.
It’s basically Father Ted [Delmot Morgan], who’s our Everyman sort of guy, flanked by the astoundingly stupid Dougal[Ardal O’Hanlon] and the mad elder, Father Jack [Frank Kelly]. Girls! Drink! No! Feck!
There’s also a housekeeper [Mrs. Doyle–Pauline McLyn] prone to pratfalls and absurdities. Which the British excel at. It’s rather like Monty Python meets the Vicar of Dibley, except Father Ted never ever ever seems to go near a church. Mm? Oh yes, Graham Norton shows up as a priest from time to time. And he’s HYSTERICAL. Oh my sainted aunt!
Anyway! It’s soothing and funny. The comments below the episodes [I’ve found this over on Youtube.] speak to a longing when comedies were not so PC, or policed by the SJW’s of today. Yeah. You just want to start laughing at that, too. Remember back when comedies were full of racist stereotypes and we could be awful to non-white people? Remember back in the good ole days?
Ah! Liberal nigger lovers and lefty kike watchdogs have ruined everything! Thank God America is great again! Snowflakes, LOL. SNOWFLAKES LOL.
I might be exaggerating a wee trifle, but it sure feels like I’m toning shite down.
So, today, I will force myself to write. Something. Anything. To splash some words on that blankness in my head. Or just go outside and play with the two dogs. Or watch some Father Ted, marvel at how great it was twenty years ago to be openly crappy to others.
one of my fav episodes back when TV was really entertaining and funny when people didn’t go all PC gawd i miss those days yes yes that would be a ecumenical matter–shane upham, commenting under Father Ted Are You Right There Father Ted?
you don’t see good comedy like this anymore thanks to the jackasses called the PC police–Espada2234
Sorry, no review, this time, of Father Ted. I can’t seem to gather enough thoughts to write up a little something on Ted and the gang of priests. I do recommend the episode where Ted and Dougal try to write a song for the European song contest show. Eurovision? We don’t get that here in the colonies. They came up with a song about a horse. I kid you not. The scene where Dougal and Ted have been up all night, trying to write that song, is just. I! Oh feck, it’s about the funniest fecking thing I’ve seen in a goodly long while.
That includes a ten second clip of any FatNixon public fap rally held with paid audience members.
I drove myself to Mountain Home, Idaho. To do a reading of my short story, Bunny Slipper, for the tenth edition of Whistle Pig, the Southwest Idaho’s literary journal.
It’s a two hour drive, at least.
The legislators in the Gem State raised the speed limit to 80 MPH.
So, my hundred mile or so drive took TWENTY MINUTES.
No, I didn’t, but it’s nice to look down at the speedometer, realize I’m not speeding recklessly. Or that the Idaho State cops won’t be yanking my backside over for a ticket. I don’t go eighty. No. About seventy or so. I used to drive like a speed fiend. I have the tickets to prove it. I’ve turned into that slow duffer. In the right lane, putting along. With others whizzing by at a hundred, all of them praying the cops are elsewhere…!
A lovely day. The gauge hit in the mid-sixties. Sunshine. No wind. I had the radio on, noticed the station, the River as it’s referred to, seemed to play the same set of songs. From a U2 combo of Pride, in the Name of Love and Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For to some whiny men singing about friends and weed. I seriously cannot hear the difference in today’s musical men or women. It all sounds alike. I have Old Man Get Off My Lawn Tin Ear-itus these days.
Oh and the River plays Love Shack, a lot, by the B-52’s. I turn that shit up! It feels so decadent to be tooling down I-84, on my way to not the love shack. Tin roof. RUSTED.
No, I don’t have that fancy thingamabob where you store every song every invented, that hooks into your car something or other. I, gulp, jab the buttons on the car stereo, like some old-fashioned dope.
Now, this stretch of the freeway is known to me. I attended UNLV way back when, so I usually entered Idaho after taking the three seconds it takes to drive through Jackpot, Nevada. Up the 93, with other highways thrown in.
I would then head for the freeway, head back to Eastern Oregon across southern Idaho. I never stopped in Mountain Home, that I remember. I drove past it, a lot. There’s also a rest stop just outside Boise, which I did stop at if my back teeth were swimming.
It’s really hard to pee if you’re on a freeway. You can’t just pull over and go. Like you can on a mostly deserted back country highway. Which I’ve done. You gotta go, it’s urgent, there’s no cars in either direction.
You yank the vehicle over, you listen for motors. You hastily squat and yeah, you hear a car approaching…yep. Every. Single. Time. You can drive for literally miles without seeing another car on a Nevada highway and then, the moment you give in, decide to water the weeds a bit, yeah. There’s a freaking parade going by.
Here’s where guys have it easy. They can just casually stand by their collection of metal and rubber wheels, whiz discreetly while pretending to be looking at something by the side of the road. Oh sure, we all know what that guy, standing by his pulled over car or truck is doing. Sure. But we pretend he’s looking at a tree or a river or a crumpled Arby’s sack hanging artistically from a clump of sagebrush.
Whereas women have to yank pants down or lift a skirt, squat. It’s a whole rigmarole. What? Wait until you get to a rest area or a truck stop or a gas station?? Yeah, when the next one is fifty to a hundred miles off? Sometimes the bladder wants what the bladder wants.
Where was I???
Oh yeah, reading a bit from a short story in Mountain Home, Idaho.
It went well. I enjoyed the other selections. There was local art work, from young kids to the elderly. Idaho has talent and it’s rather surprising how thriving the arty community is. I felt energized. It’s write a novel month coming up in November. I plan to tackle my Starved Out Eastern Oregon ranchers versus Big Gubbermint attempt. No ghosts, goblins, zombies or vampires. None! Just people being all people, as they do at times.
Exit 90 is the exit I took. You then turn right, drive a bit. If you want, you can head off to Bruneau, and the famous sand dunes.
The place I sought sits on the right. El Herradero. I treated myself to enchiladas, pork. I had to go back out, find the other room where the readings would take place. I got there to Mountain Home a bit early.
I managed to read without sounding like a squeaky mouse. I kept my reading fairly short. I used my actor training to modulate my voice. I did not touch the mic which kept going on and off for others, as microphones do at times. The atmosphere for the Whistle Pig gala was pretty laid back, warm, charming and gracious. Everyone seemed to know each other. As you do in a close-knit artist’s community such as this.
Now, I parked across the way, in the Albertson’s parking lot, the Jimmy [GMC] pointed at the one-way street I needed to get back on to get back out to the freeway heading west. I’m always thinking, when I have to get to a new place, how do I get back again. I did manage to find the freeway entrance, in the dark, and got back again obviously, instead of heading off to Twin Falls. Though, if I had gotten on the freeway going the way I did not want to go, I could just take an exit, yeah. Though, that exit might not be for some miles, so. And the cops, even in Idaho, frown at doing a u-turn on the freeway. I joke. Idaho cops would find that a ticket-worthy offense. Among other things.
Speaking of cops!
It was Friday night, so the cops were out IN FORCE. Saw lots of red and blue lights! Even when I got super-close to home, there were cop lights going off. I even thought one was going to pull me over…but it didn’t come after me creeping past the Malheur Butte, wondering where all the papers were, if my license was even in my purse and…yeah.
I had had a Pepsi and a glass of water, so no worries that way. Yay!
Also didn’t take many pictures. I just. Ugh.
To sum up, I got to Mountain Home and back home again. I left at about three thirty, got back at eleven at night on the dot. I read my piece, I didn’t embarrass myself.
It was called Bunny Slipper. About a man who buries his unwanted convenient sort of wife in the Nevada desert and she crawls out of that hole to come find him. Sad, with maggots. Yeah. The usual dreary stuff.
As I mentioned, I went to a writer’s festival in Nampa, Idaho. It took place downtown, as they say. Outside of the Prefunk Beer Bar on 1st Street, South. You get off on Exit 35, take Northside Avenue.
Saturday, I went to try and sell some books. I roughly had the mood equivalent of a dead turtle, so…won’t go into that because I don’t want to. It rained a bit. I bought some raspberry lemonade fudge from the farmer’s market. Pigeons.
I drove over, somehow got there in about twenty minutes. As it’s nearly fifty miles to Nampa from my den of utter aloneness, I bent the laws of time and space! Also, the day proved to be a nice one. No rain, no wind, perfect fall weather, though a bit chilly as the day drew onward into the star-smeared night.
A workshop, where everyone there began the initial creation of a comic strip. Led by a lovely woman comics artist from Seattle, I believe. Thu Tran.
How to break up the dialogue. How to create the character or characters that will speak the words.
Write some lines. Try to draw the ones speaking those lines. Practice getting a creation you can draw over and over, until it’s almost automatic.
I did okay. People around were smart, drawing animals or bottles of spaghetti sauce. I drew people. I eventually just got to circle and triangle, with faces on each, for my characters. With differing expressions. I also drew them in profile. This actually helps me, as a playwright and prose spewer, to cut unnecessary dialogue.
What absolutely needs to be said? What can be cut? What is essential? Also, sitting for nearly two hours, drawing, helps calm the anxiety I have being AROUND OTHERS.
I also want to mention another writer I met. Javier Luna. Super-nice, friendly and talented. Thanks for talking to me. I’m an awkward social outcast right now, so thanks.
The next big group thing: poetry readings. It took place in one of the buildings over where the farmer’s market had been. I just trailed after people like a stray dog, as I had no idea what building. Was. The building.
I’m also one of those people that when told something will start at X time, I actually expect it to start at X time, not whenever people stop farting around…Okay! But! If you have to set up microphones and move equipment, yep. I get it, I do. Been there myself. I’m always early to stuff, I’m also one of those pests.
I did enjoy this. Some poets more than others, as you do. I rather like the idea that there are so many poets within a hundred mile radius. It’s rather heartening. I liked the humor that crept out or blasted from the get-go in some of those readings. I got to thrill to odd phrases that caught my attention.
I noted that I was not wearing the writer garb nearly everyone else wore– dull colors, sweats, knitted caps, black the primary color…dang it. I wore a bright yellow top with a silver sparkly sweater, and BLACK PANTS. I got part of the Writer Uniform right.
If you’ve ever been to a poetry reading, then you pretty much know how this one went. If not, you should go. Hearing people read their own work should be a life goal if you’ve not done so already. Often times, these readings are free and open to the public, and you get to support a local poet or group of poets. In these times, yeah.
We need our artists. We need them. We need them when things are not whack-a-mole off the charts batshit insane, too.
Slight break, then the flash fiction portion of the evening would begin. Here, the entire kit and kaboodle got moved back to the alley outside the bar. Running a bit late. It’s Sunday night.
Did I mention I’d had two drinks and no food? That I’m trying not to just go home, forget the whole thing? That I kept wondering why I’d worn such bright clothes?? Why hadn’t I slipped a dull hat over my grandma-ish-fixed-and-sprayed hair?? Why??? I had slapped makeup on! Dang it! I have knitted dull hats! Somewhere.
I had a dragonfruit cider, and then a giant huckleberry one. Prefunk is a microbrewery kinda hipster place. Not really, but sorta, yeah. I thought the dragonfruit cider tasted like a wine cooler. But the huckleberry one tasted swell. Like huckleberries.
The flash fiction reading had a theme. High fantasy, fantasy, sword and sorcery, etc! I happened to actually read the submission blurt, and sent in a quick take I had of Rapunzel called Vineheart and the Stolen Daughters.
Originally, this one started off as Prisoner. What a dull, pedestrian title! I wrote the first draft of this for some themed contest, about prisoners or being locked up or blah. I know it had a theme to do with being locked up, breaking free of that. Something like that.
Did my piece win over those who read it? Nope! So I kept reworking my Rapunzel take, renamed it, renamed it again. Have super-long versions, then did a shorty version. Which ended up as a piece to be read at the Death Rattle Flash Fiction portion.
I went third. The night had turned cold enough for coats. October. Sunday evening.
Now, I thought my voice sounded like one of the squeaky mice from Cinderella. Ugh! I did manage to get through it, people listened. It was eight hundred words or so. I didn’t embarrass myself. That’s pretty much all I’ve got to go on these days. That I didn’t embarrass myself in public too badly.
People did stop by to say they enjoyed it.
The other pieces had a mostly light-hearted, funny bent to them. Very enjoyable to sit there and listen to them. Lots of fun word play, alchemists and witches and dragons. Even an appearance by Persephone. For a tiny bit, the real world couldn’t intrude here. For a tiny bit, one believed everything would turn out okay.
Then, you drive home, after discovering a Burger King on the corner where you need to turn to get back to the freeway. Nothing since a dubious lunch. Burger King it is! Money? Sure, I got some of that scattered in small coins across the bottom of my purse…
To sum up– I attended a local writer’s festival. I enjoyed it. I read a flash fiction piece. I drove home. The end!
Not quite the end yet– I also want to say a big thanks to Sarah, Reed, the tall guy in the baseball cap who did bad high fantasy punning, and the other organizers of this event. Thanks for being welcoming, and inclusive.
Well, it’s almost here. Book fair in Nampa, Idaho, for the Death Rattle writer’s festival. I airily asked for booth space to sell my stack of unsold books. Then, I decided I needed posters to advertise I’m a REAL WRITER. So I’ve been obsessing over that. Redoing them. Discovering I had some green body glitter from way back that, yes, can be used accordingly. I’ve been using spray paint.
I’ll also be reading a short piece called Vineheart and the Stolen Daughters, which is a quickie take on Rapunzel.
My mood is low, and I almost want to bow out of this whole thing. Just hide in my room. I had a job interview, I botched it, I did something very wrong. I didn’t get a job I could do in my sleep half-dead with typhoid. With two degrees in that subject. I seem to have “loser” tattooed on my forehead…I know, you’re supposed to be positive all the damn time. Sorry. I’ll buck up. Write some zany review of a television show that’s been off the air for years. Yeah. It’s been raining. We needed it.
I’m an agitated little poster maker these first days of October. I’m trying to get ready for my booth, and gear up for a public reading. Two of them, actually. So that’s good! Nampa, Idaho for the Death Rattle festival. Mountain Home for the tenth anniversary of Whistle Pig. Both in Idaho, so local events I can drive to easy enough.
Now, yesterday. I had a visit with an old friend. At the library. We sat in the far back, hushed voices. Talking about. Politics. We’re both a bit blue in a very scarlet area of Oregon.
Oregon has conservatives??
Yeah, outside of that Portland-Salem-Eugene strip, the rest of the state is mouth-breathing methheads who still think Obummer is comin’ for theirz gunz. I know this because I’m related to some of them.
We’re a blue state only because that I-5 corridor consists of staunch liberals, for the most part.
I’ve written about this friend before. The gentle peacenik sort with the high ideals of society and people. Right now, he’s ready to move to the bluest commune he can find, leaving behind his beloved animals if he has to. He feels sick all the time. He’s fighting with those around him who are Trump-supporters. He’s left his church over it being too pro-conservative. But he is writing. It’s helping him cope. He wants to hold a poetry workshop.
Those not in the cult o’Mangled Orange Hellbeast seem to be on coping mode right now.
Old movies, binge watching something familiar, listening to the same pieces of music over and over, eating too much, not eating enough, sleeping too much, not sleeping enough.
There’s this stunned, this cannot be happening take to America’s direction right now, from Americans who have to live here. We’ve become an army of zombies who want comfort, fattening food, mental candy and long snoozes in a soft, warm bed. To wake up to it was all a dream, everything’s okay, we’re still the good guys in the world.
How to turn that survival mode switch off? Turn the LET’S FUCKING TAKE THESE MOTHERFUCKING ASSMUNCHES TO THE TRASH switch on?
We don’t need more opinion pieces on why so and so is a supporter of Fat Nixon. STFU, New York Times. Enough!
We don’t need more earnest discussions on what to do if this becomes a dictatorship. That fucking ship sailed a while ago, kiddos.
We don’t need any more the politicians on the left are as bad as the ones on the right snooty snoots.
Fuck! Are you kidding, far lefties?? Are you actually trying to make sure shit goes down that will get America listed up there with North Korea, Stalin’s Soviet Union, Hitler’s Germany?
How bad does it have to get before you unicorn-seeking far lefties start fighting back with more than long blog posts on how no one is woke but you and about three others named Dreamstar of Nowhereland, Xena Cloudwarrior for Vegan Harmony, and Jangles the Non-Materialistic Clown for World Peace?
People mention civil war more and more here. That’s what has my hackles raised, my teeth bared. Because, frankly, it would be a relief to watch Trump supporters getting their heads blown off in mid-love fest of that thing they’ve chosen to worship. I know. I’m not supposed to voice such a thing, ever. I’m not even supposed to imagine that, I’m on the ‘nice’ side, that plays by the rules, takes the high road and loses about every election there is to lose lately. Which is the problem.
People still think there are rules, checks and balances, in place. BWHA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH um, I mean, tee hee, tee hee.
There’s not. Rules and fair play left years ago, you idiot grinners, you mannerly snitchheads.
The limping left keep waiting for Republicans to DO THE RIGHT THING.
While assuming crash positions, knowing full well that those on the right will allow this creeping tide of fanatics to unleash the dogs of war on all of us. Yet waiting for the GOP in America to PUT A STOP TO IT.
Though, some on the right are sounding the alarm quite loudly. Going– hey, look over here, bad dudes and bad dudettes doing shitty things! LOOOOOOOK.
With the left using their inside voices and their company manners, telling those on the left using their outside voices and pointy fingers to pipe down, don’t upset people. Always Be Cautious Abused Wives seems to be the real slogan of the left these days. Placate, placate, placate, is the battle cry of the left. Those not placating get treated like something stepped in when walking the labradoodle at the dog park.
Yeah. You notice that, you suppress the crappy crap, you sit through a literally hellish week of watching Kavanaugh blah blah.
And now the White House released a four person list that the FBI could interview, yet no one on the left seems to be screeching a screech that will be heard round the world about that…!!!!!!!!!! FUCK
BOOM BOOM BOOM
CLANG CLANG CLANG WENT THE COUNTRY
Until your head explodes after your tenth viewing of that song from the new Star is Born, where you melt with happy numbness over Lady Gaga hitting that middle shouty bit about being shallow or something. Bradley Cooper can sing? What?? Where’s that ten pound bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups! I need some Hot Cheetos! Hit replay! Oooh, Lady Gaga, girl! Who knew Bradley Cooper could grow a beard and sing??! Lindsey Graham said what??
So, I went to the library to talk to a friend. I’m redoing my posters for the writer’s event so they don’t look like I did them when drunk, asleep, depressed to the point of turning into an actual slug. I’m wondering what the uniforms will be like for American Civil War II, the Return of the Orange King.
I hope it’s flattering for all body types, and that blood washes out of it. No sense getting a uniform that stains too easy.
“This week has felt like a war on women. And we lost.”
I read something like that on a playwriting thread about turning the Ford hearing into a play, with people [men] complaining it would be too one-sided, not give the one side enough layers, not give a voice to those whose voices are already overwhelmingly heard. Discussing it more along the lines of some abstract problem that doesn’t touch their lives at all, ever.
That farce yesterday. Ford v. Kavanaugh.
Where it went exactly as people feared it would– into he said/she said land. A female prosecutor, a female assistant, as she was referred to, got brought in last minute to ‘balance’ the all-male panel facing Ford. No other witnesses were allowed to ‘testify’.
It was her word against his. Where she got grilled by an actual prosecutor from Arizona…[yet, it’s not a trial?] Rachel Mitchell, by the way, worked for Maricopa County. Joe Arapeio. Go look all that up. Fun stuff.
Kavanaugh got to rage, growl, sob and whine, and have the male senators throw out that same female prosecutor they’d flown in especially to deal with the troublesome Dr. Ford. As this female hussy suddenly started asking Kavanaugh some questions that he had trouble answering! HUSSY! HOW DARE SHE!!! Remove her! Which they did, after the GOP senators all said they would give all their time to Mitchell to question Kavanaugh! That’s on record. That’s on record, oh my.
So!! The male senators. They turned into defenders of one of their own. They let out growls of rage. They threw hissy fits about what a ‘fine’ man Kavanaugh was and how this was JUST SO UNFAIR GOL DARN IT.
Of course he was innocent!
It’s all a plot by Hillary! Ford was confused! She was raped by members of the Black Panthers, probably led by Obama’s friends, paid for by Soros! There’s two rando guys here saying they did it, so let’s believe these rando guys! She’s just some crazy, mixed up nice lady who can’t remember squat!
There has never been a more horrible awful thing to happen in politics ever than this– see Lindsey Graham for how to be a real drama queen.
Anita Hill got tossed into all this.
What happened to her. How Clarence Thomas even now sits on the Supreme Court. How it was the GOP back then who allowed him on the bench and now it’s a pack of truly hideous Grand Old Perverts more than likely gonna let ole Kavagrope on the bench, as well. Even though there are calls for an FBI investigation, for delays to get other witnesses to testify, for a more thorough looking into all this.
For something other than THAT BITCH IS PAID BY THE CLINTONS.
For something other than LET’S VOTE ALREADY AND FUCK SOME HOT ASS AFTERWARD.
Yes, Kavanaugh actually shouted out that he was the victim of Democrats trying to get back at the GOP for Trump ‘winning’ the election.
Okay, if I rehash all that yesterday, I’m not going to be able to function.
Not that I am doing that well right now.
Women lost yesterday. They lost. They got told they don’t matter. What happens to them doesn’t matter. Their voices, their traumas, their lives. They do not matter.
We’re opportunists. We make up stories of rape and assault just to get back at men in power. We lie. We’re confused. We’re vengeful harpies who just want to see men dead or broken. We’re every last fucking stereotype about women you can imagine. Or have heard. Or snicker about.
A deep churning angry. I’ve been anxious for over a week now. I’ve been resorting to an old behavior of mine. I had a sleepless night. Yeah, stuff happened to me, too. And it was confusing, awful, confusing, confusing. I didn’t tell. I thought I’d get in trouble. I didn’t want to cause trouble. I thought it was no big deal– later on, when I heard what others had gone through. They had it so much worse. How could what happened to me be anything much at all?
I was just a drama queen wanting attention. I was just exaggerating and being all needy.
Rage. I am never not angry. Never. It never dies down. It never goes away.
I don’t like being around crowds of people, I don’t like people too close to me. Even people I know. Even people I love. I can barely hug people. I flinch if people touch me– a casual touch on the shoulder, I go stiff, I hold my breath. Someone hovering too close to me brings me into near panic and freak out mode at times.
I have nightmares. I mean the kind where you wake up screaming thinking someone is in the room with you. Usually a monster of some kind. A menacing male figure bent on harm. I remember screaming and screaming, trying to fight off some ghost-vampire thing darting across my bedroom. My mother said I screamed for a long time. I was in my teens.
There’s a list here.
Sure, I talked to a therapist about it. When I had the means. I talked about making myself throw up. I talked about my bouts of depression. I didn’t feel like I could fully trust the woman rolling her eyes and trying to listen to yet another garden variety woman with such silly problems. I’ve never had a therapist like the ones on television or movies. You know, the ones that seem to give a real shit.
Oh yeah, trust. I don’t trust anyone. I learned not to. A long time ago. I know better than to tell my little sordid store of secrets and stories. I will get dismissed. I will get that ‘okay, whatever’ face. I will get told I’m just attention-seeking. I will be laughed at. I will not be taken seriously. It will be used against me. It will be told to others without my permission. It will harm me if I tell. That’s what I have learned over the years. That people are just as awful and predatory and cruel and confusing as…yeah.
But. What’s been happening over the past two years or so, woman-toward.
It’s like seeing daylight after fumbling about in a dark room. You draw near the crack in the wall, look out into a world lit by the sun, get a whiff of fresh air. And then someone, from outside, brutally slaps a board over that crack, laughs as they nail that board over that small view you just had. Keeps laughing. Keeps laughing.
I think a lot of other women are angry, too. And anger gets shit done, to quote from American Gods, Mr. Nancy.
Women are watching this shitshow. They remember. Women remember. What’s going on now remains in memory. Coated with grit. Coated with whatever happened to them as well. Maybe this time it will be enough. Maybe this time. How many more Anita Hill-like episodes have to happen before that anger explodes into actual action? That’s…that’s the truly gut-wrenching, savaging part. How many more Anita Hill’s will it take? How many HOW FUCKING MANY? What’s the number? What’s the number??
It took quite a lot to get the vote for women. If you want to get funky, it took thousands of years for women to be able to vote on shit that impacts their lives. Thousands of years for women to have a say in policies that affect their bodies, their lives, their futures. It’s going to take quite a lot to get women regarded as human beings.
Ain’t it cute?? Women can vote now. They’ll probably vote on who they think is cutest. Or vote with their periods. Fucking bitches.
I hope it’s not a thousand more years for Jesustown, which is ‘murica’s new name, to decide women are human, too. I hope women don’t have to go about acting nice, smiling a lot, being so calm they resemble house plants until they can be themselves in public as well as mostly in private. As even in private, among our loved ones, women tend to wait until alone in the bathroom to scream into a pillow or cry their eyes out as the shower runs to hide the sounds. Or else they get called crazy. Or emotional. Or asked if they’re on their periods. Or. Or. Or.
Ford, after all, remained relatively calm during her testimony and got labeled anyway. Kavacunt went off the rails and got called a hero by the GOP. Go look that up. Go ahead. I dare ya. I also read yesterday that the bar keeps getting lowered for men and made even more impossible to clear for women. Yep. Uh huh. Duh.
I hope the collective anger right now builds to an actual result.
That this continuous shitshow ends. That’s there are real repercussions for yesterday’s massaging of the male ego. That’s what it appeared like to me, anyway. A massaging of that male ego that says men can do whatever they like to whomever they like, with no consequences. The men screaming and sobbing about poor Kavanaugh seemed more upset that he had to suffer this non-problem to get onto the SCOTUS.
As that shitshow yesterday was all for show.
I knew it.
They knew it. Everyone there knew it.
It was like watching a bad high school production of Twelve Angry Men. A really bad production where no one told the actors to not telegraph exactly what they’re going to do next.
Hey–unless you’re a blind nun who worked among lepers for the last eighty years, your words will be ignored, spit on, not believed and used against you. But since you’re a nun, and a woman, your words won’t be heard in the first place.
Sorry! Grow a penis, hon! Then we’ll take you seriously. Then you’ll matter, you’ll count.
What happened in the past should not impact how men should be rewarded with the highest honor a judge in America can be rewarded, damn it! He’s older now! He coaches girlie basketball, damn it! How dare you interrupt the rise of a magnificent man like this???!!!
How dare you.
How dare you.
It’s hard to concentrate on anything right now. Maybe I need to. I. Maybe.
Once upon a time, she wore a gown of stars and diamonds. She moved through the crowds, who called her names beneath their breath, like cunt and twat and bitch, and smiled to her face while calling her pretty and nice. She danced with no one, just herself, letting her skirts swirl out, taking the very middle of the floor.
That music is for everyone, someone muttered, others muttered that moments after. Until everyone said it but the one dancing.
She must be taught a lesson, that cunt, that twat, that bitch. She must be taught she doesn’t matter at all, that’s she’s to be looked at, that’s she’s to be divided into pieces for all to enjoy. That she doesn’t belong to herself. That she must dance in private or dance as we want her to.
The crowd surrounded her.
Her dress of stars and diamonds torn away, replaced with a dress of mud and thorns. They cut her tongue out so she would stop screaming. They cut off her hands so she would stop fighting. They cut off her legs so she could not run away. They removed her eyes so she could not mark their faces into her brain. They stuffed wads of cloth in each ear so she could not hear their voices to mark them into her brain. They removed her brain to make sure all others in their star and diamond dresses would know to take them off, and put on the dresses of mud and thorns.
And they did.
Help us teach her that final lesson, said the crowd to these women now wearing mud and thorns. Or you will be next. So the women in their approved mud, in their smiled upon thorns, helped carry off the severed arms and legs. They burned the tongue, stomped the eyeballs flat, stuffed more cloth into the ears, fried the brain with butter to serve to the hounds.
Through the years, only a few dared dance in the middle of that floor wearing the universe on her skin. The ghost of that first one rises to join them.
The women yet in mud and thorns look away, their anger tamped down like coals in a stone hearth. Come dance with us, speak the ones dancing.
Not yet, not yet, shhh, the rest say, longing like a taste of bitter almonds in their throats.